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Christmas at the Hospital

I hate christmas. For many reasons, but the main reason is that I am an atheist. The idea of celebrating something I think is not real, is as pointless as shutting down school for something like the moon landing. Christmas to me always seemed so fake. It just seemed like pure pageantry. The point of christmas is to remember who Jesus was.. You know the Jesus who would push another person out of line to get the last video camera. Or the Jesus that would spend hundreds of dollars to spoil his kids with stuff they don’t need while people have nothing to eat.. I love reading the story of when Jesus took the fish and turned it into a ’72 plasma screen for his man cave.

My family is one of those “Good Christian Families.” Celebrating the birth of the cute little “white” baby jesus with their kin probably means something special. I never understood why this period of time was more important than any Santa:jesusother? Why was it so important for our family to be together at christmas, but not really that important any other time of the year?  I mean, we don’t ever talk on the phone.. We don’t ever hang out. The idea that we come together and supposedly love each other for only a few days seems as ridiculous as removing your windshield wipers to avoid getting a parking ticket.

However, for some reason up to the time I was 25 I had only missed one christmas with my parents. Despite the fact I had moved out when I was 17, I had always made the trek back to Oregon to spend christmas with my family. Somehow I was able to muster up some fake enthusiasm so that my family can try and have some sort of an enjoyable holiday.  I tried my best to play the part of the loving, caring, non-drinking son. I felt more fake then Joan Rivers face. That’s what they wanted right? For us to play our role in the dramatization of our functional and happy family? It never worked. We are just to dysfunctional. We make the Jackson’s look like the Brady Bunch. Most of the dysfunction lies in the fact that everybody in my family thinks that they are not the one with the problem. Everyone thinks they are void of any responsibility in keeping the dysfunction train moving. On top of that, we are terrible communicators. The only way we talk about stuff is by being passive aggressive. For example, one christmas as a gift I got my parents couples counseling. Another Christmas, I got my father a mug that said, “worlds most emotionally manipulative father.” In return, he got me a framed picture of all my siblings college degrees.

I never really understood how one family can be completely fine socializing any time of the year, yet throw in the ingredient of Christmas and it somehow ruins the whole thing. Like it’s mayonnaise in Guacamole or Juan Pablo on the Bachelor.

After years of expensive state mandated therapeutic research, my therapist and unknowing colleague and I have finally pinpointed the mathematical equation that causes our family meltdowns to occur.

Day 1- Civil. Catching each other up on the years happenings, funny quips and hot cocoa at the end of the night.

Day 2- Mild irritation at each other differences magnified by being locked in our small childhood home and cocoa at the end of the night.

Day 3- Funny quips turn into passive jabs, hurt feelings and cocoa goes cold due to constant arguing.

Day 4- passive jabs turn into full out haymakers. Going for the knockout and as a result a cataclysmic meltdown of some sort.. No cocoa gets made.

So many meltdowns to remember, but I am proud to announce that on VH1’s ’10 greatest family meltdowns of the lohan20th century’ my family took home two places. At #8 was the great meltdown of ’96. My parents found a High Times magazine in my room that caused me to run away and live in my buddies garage only returning on christmas day for my gifts.

And bringing in the second spot (second to Dina Lohan and company) of course the great meltdown of ‘99 where I counted at least 12 doors slammed, 11 Fuck you’s, 10 don’t yells, 9 praying dads, 8 brothers shoved, 7 long drives, 6 remotes thrown, 5 CRYING MOMS, 4 punched walls, 3 get some air, 2 your adopted and a vacation poorly spent.

Whenever I was home, so many questions would run through my mind about christmas. Like, why is this religious holiday so hard on my family? Is this how jesus would act? Who would jesus argue with? Is christmas latin for kill my family? Is Christianity really a secret ploy by the Illuminatti to ruin families?

After years of holiday cheerlessness, at the age of 25 I finally decided celebrating christmas was not something I valued. I finally realized that ‘not’ being around my family during that time was probably best for the families long term success. So, I told my parents I was not ever coming home again for christmas. I think they had seen the writing on the wall, but I was put in a tough predicament. See, two of my siblings had already beaten me to it by committing to celebrating christmas at their partner’s families house.  Without me, that would leave my parents alone with my brother for christmas. I was stuck with a tough decision. Do I ditch out all together and let my folks fend for themselves? Or, do I stick it out one more year and hope that by subtracting two of the ingredients that make up the depressing fruit cake that it might be a easier to digest. That’s when I came up with the brilliant idea (at the time) to transition out of going home for christmas and to spend the holidays with my remaining family somewhere else.

My parents were open to the idea. I don’t know how they wouldn’t be? They were almost being held hostage. Two of their four kids (granted their least favorite) already gone and the third threatening not to come home, if they wanted to have any semblance of a christmas they were forced to join me. They finally agreed and we had to decide on a place. Where would a well traveled 25 year old, a well traveled 29 year old and two kind of well 60 year olds going to enjoy? I wanted to go somewhere like Madagascar, or Mauritius, but since my parents are not as ambitious as myself we had to find a place that we all agreed upon. We needed a place that was westernized, affordable, sunny and yet still different then the overwhelming whiteness of the Northwest.  Georgia is sunny and affordable, but still in the US. Alabama is kind of westernized and feels like you are in another country, but they don’t speak much english. The place we finally landed on was good ol’ Puerto Rico (air horn blowing.)  puerto

It was certainly not my first choice, but since the three people I was traveling with all wanted to put to use their fluent spanish it was either Puerto Rico or Texas. So I chose Puerto Rico. I don’t speak spanish at all, however I can listen to at least 10 seconds of mariachi music before I turn it off, so kind of.. I have traveled in enough spanish speaking countries to know enough to get by. I know things like “Estas Vaacanado” which means, ‘are you vaccinated.

I was a little nervous about traveling with my parents. I had traveled with my parents a lot when I was a kid. I think the last time I had ever been out of the country with them is when they picked me up from drug rehab in Western Samoa when I was 16. It seemed fine then.. They were the only people who could drive, the only people with money and the only people who could make any sort of informed decision. At 16 my basic thinking process was, let’s get some drugs or some ladies or some drugs that will make me hallucinate some ladies… So 9 years later as an adult I didn’t know what to expect.

The trip could not have started any worse. My parents came up to Seattle to fly out with me and all flights out were delayed for two days. As my brother waited for us in sunny Puerto Rico, I was stuck in a small house with my parents in snowy Seattle. If you have never been stuck in a house for 2 days with my parents, I don’t recommend it. It’s kind of like you are suffocating and just as you are running out of air someone puts a plastic bag over your head and punches you in the throat.

We finally made it to Puerto Rico and I found out very quickly my parent’s and I travel very differently. I travel kind of by the seat of my pants. No real plans, take it day to day and never make any concrete plans. My parents are vastly the opposite. Maybe it’s because they are older.. They are not like Betty White old. They are more like a browning banana that you are sort of on the fence about eating sort of old.. I played by their rules and was happy to let them kind of run the show, until the last night of our trip. We were to fly home at 8:00 am out of San Juan, so my parents pre-booked our hotel. They booked a room at the Howard Johnson at the hospital. As we were trying to find it the sexy british ladies voice on our GPS kept saying, “you have arrived,” but there was no hotel in site, just a hospital. Finally, we all walked into the hospital to ask where the Howard Johnson was and quickly found out the Howard Johnson was located inside the actual hospital. They had 10 rooms for people who had to stay overnight with their loved ones and somehow in someway my parents managed to book on of them. I didn’t blame my parents, I blame Howard Johnson. Shame on howardyou HOJO.. You could be HOJO “In the hospital.” Something a little more clear  that my mom can easily understand.

So, here we were checking into the hospital. The receptionist for the hotel was the same as the receptionist for the hospital. So naturally, two young guys walking in with two older people she assumed we were checking them in. She asked in english, “what are your symptoms? Who is your insurance provider?” When she finally understood that we had prepaid for a room there and were going to stay for the night, she lowered her head and shook it in disbelief just as any foreigner does when they have an interaction with an american does.

So, we checked in and began to bring out stuff in. To people who didn’t know, it looked like the whities were moving in for a back yard barbecue. We were coming in caring a cooler full of food, because if someone is gonna die, it’s not gonna because the did not have enough coleslaw or sprite. Our room was great. The doors were extremely wide so that, wheel chairs could come and go which was great because my parents overpacked and their suitcases were huge. We tried to lay low, as we knew that everyone staying in the other 9 rooms probably weren’t is as good of spirits as us. The key word above is ‘tried.’ Since we had spent so much time trying to find the “Howard Johnson in the Hospital,” it was late and my parents were tired. They did not want to make the trek out to a restaurant, so we decided to eat at the hospital cafeteria.. Let me tell you, if you haven’t already you got to try it, because there is nothing like eating mashed potatoes and soup while doctors and sick people give you the stink eye. I imagined them looking at us as some sort of scam artists.. Like we go and stay at senior homes because the first month is free. Or we are the University of Phoenix. As one of the doctors came in and saw four sunburned gringo’s eating in the cafeteria he laughed and said out loud in english “must have used Expedia.”

The trip really opened my eyes to a lot of things. First, it is so awesome to spend christmas in a sunny place. I would rather be snorkeling in ’70 water on christmas day then drinking cocoa and watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ because you are snowed in. I also realized that even though dysfunctional they have quirks that really make me laugh. Somehow I actually missed the bickering. I missed the family meltdowns. On the trip I did manage to make my mom cry and have my dad try an intervene with prayer, but it was just not the same without the whole gang. It is kind of like watching watching the daily show with Craig Kilborn, just not right. kilborn

I noticed that I focused so much on my families differences then the similarities. In my siblings I would only see the different personalities, the different ideas, the different politics and claim that the only thing we had in common is that we all exited the same vagina. I would always point out to people how much different I was then my family. So quick to try and separate myself from them. I realized that those are the things that made my family unique. We aren’t all the same.  That is what really made my family great. Through all the fights, tears and slammed door, there is something to be said about people who know your origins. Something to be said about people who know where you come from, what you have been through and know how to push your buttons. Even though I am an atheist and my the rest of my family are god worshipers, I always knew that my family knew me in a way that no one else could really know me. Even though, I would never go home for Christmas again, Puerto Rico made me appreciate my family in a way I never thought I would. Appreciate them for being weird and dysfunctional. It made me want to be part of the family again.

 

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Parrots aren’t as cool as they seem.

In theory, parrots rock! When I think of parrots as pets, I imagine them less as a pet and more like a poorly educated drunk buddy. The similarities are uncanny. They both kind of just hang around, piece together funny sentences and constantly eat all your food. For me, I dream about all the cool tricks I could teach them. If I had a parrot, I would teach it amazing card tricks and cool phrases like, “Oh baby, come and pet me” or “liquor before beer never fear.” Parrots can learn all sorts of parrot cool things. I had a friend who taught his bird to play dead when he shot it with an imaginary gun. I saw a guy street performing in San Francisco, who taught his parrot to take $5 bills from people’s hands. Although, when someone would hold a $1 bill out, he would take it and say: “Cheapo, Cheapo.” I even heard a story about a couple, whose parrot would always say, “Oh John, give it to me baby. That’s how I like it.” Finally, the husband figured out “John” was the name of the man his wife was cheating on him with, and the Parrot was just repeating what he heard.

My roommate’s ex-girlfriend has a parrot named Ralphie; that she would bring over to the house. Ralphie was probably the meanest parrot I have ever met. If Oscar the Grouch were a parrot: Ralphie would kill him. At first he was cool, because he was shy about being in a new environment. However, once he felt comfortable in the house, and around us, his true feathers came out. Here is three reasons why someone needs to have a serious talk with this bird.
Shipwreck_RAH#1- He wasn’t one of those parrots that you could just let chill on your shoulder and make you feel like a Pirate or Shipwreck from GI-Joe, Ralphie was a Punk. The reason being, whoever’s shoulder he was on, he would constantly shit all over. If he wasn’t treating them like a star of a German Fetish Film, he usually was trying to maliciously bite their ear off like he’s some sort of well spoken Mike Tyson. I guess Parrots can shit where they eat.

#2 – Any time you are quite, he is quite. Anytime you are trying to have a conversation in his paltrowcry_1824185cpresence, he starts crying like he’s Gwyneth Paltrow listening to Coldplay. It’s a type of cry that makes having a baby on a plane sound like ocean waves.

#3- His wings were clipped, but that did not stop him from flying around the house 10 feet at a time. He looked like a Wright Brothers experiment gone wrong. Often times he would fly right at your face, like he was purposely trying to freak you out. I would be in the kitchen minding my own business, and all of a sudden here comes a bird suicide bombing my face.

His owner, my roommates ex-girlfriend; was so overly protective of him. That made the whole situation worse. She was more concerned about his well being then the well being of the people who lived in the house. I once said to her: “Hey, if I accidentally hit him, while he is flying at my face, with a baseball bat, it’s not my fault.” She flipped out like every person ever on the show Hardcore Pawn.  I mean, I know parrots have gained national attention with their Hollywood Pauliebreakthrough movies. Movies like Paulie, and The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, but that is no reason for Ralphie to be such a ego driven douche. I think it is safe to say, I was not fond of the bird, but that was all about to change.

One night, I came home to my house; which we had only lived in a month, and there was no one home. It was probably midnight, all the lights were off, and I headed up the stairs to my room. As I am walking up the stairs I hear this faint voice that says, “Hello?” The voice was so eerie, and unexpected, it made me jump like I was Dominique Wilkins getting punked. Not only did I jump, but I also let out a little girl shriek that would have made Hitchcock wet himself. I ran out of the house; like my girlfriend’s husband just came home, and stood in the street trying to gather myself, and process what I just heard. After gathering myself, I slowly walked in the door, and heard something upstairs moving around. I walked slowly up the stairs with my only protection being a pen, out of my pocket; because everyone knows, the pen is mightier than the sword. While I was headed upstairs, I thought I was going to see something out of Paranormal Activity, but instead I saw Ralphie: sitting in his cage, at the top of the stairs, laughing hysterically at the spot in the front of my pants. The site of the little green bird, made me burst into laughter, marveling at my own ridiculousness.

Ever since that night, I began to like Ralphie. I made an effort to turn a blind eye to his annoying habits, and selfish activities. I began to like him for who he was: a shitting, ear eating, pompous parrot who has a great sense of humor. So, three cheers for Ralphie; (as long as he doesn’t come over again.)

Crappy Kid Names

Recently, I have noticed a trend of really sucky kid names. I will meet kids with unusual names, which make me look at the parents like, “Seriously? You pretentious piece of trash! Out of all the names in the world, you chose the name “Simple” for your child.” People are getting carried away with the fact they get to name something. I find the more liberated we get as a culture; the more the names become absurd. Whatever happened to the classic names; like Ann, Beth, Rick, George, Lawrence, Maureen, and Gwendolyn? They might be old, but they are names that when they introduce themselves, people do not look at them like they are insulting their gullibility.  I mean, who does not want to name something?  I know it’s exciting, but don’t ruin your child’s life in attempt to make other parents think you are cool. Just because you named your kid, “Lennon” does not make you any less douchier then you were before. I am not trying to say you shouldn’t name your kid something unique; just give them a “normal” unique name. One that when your kid has to introduce themselves in front of the class, it does not scream, “My parents are fucking idiots!” I have plenty of friends with kick-ass unique names. Names like Landen, Lara, Daphne, Trillium, and Rex are all names that when you hear them don’t make you want to punch them in the face.

Here is a top 10 of the most horrible names that I have encountered. Note: these are names of people I have actually met. I have left off the notoriously bad names that egotistical celebrities ruin their kid’s lives. Like: Penn Jillette naming his kid “Moxie Crimefighter,” Arthur Ashe naming his kid “Camera,” and the worst David Carradine naming his kid “Free.”

If your name is on the list, I am sorry. Don’t be mad at me; be mad at your parents. If your child’s name is on the list, you brought this upon yourself:

#1 – Abeni (It’s only strange because he is a rich white guy, and “Abeni” is an African name meaning, “we asked for her and we got her.”

#2- Unique (pushing the pretentious boundary)

#3- Amelie (long after the movie, and they aren’t French. Good luck getting the kids at American public schools to pronounce that right. They’ll just pronounce her name “You’ll never have friends.”)

#4- Rammel (This guy was actually related to the Desert Fox, but you don’t want to name your kid after a famous Nazi general)

#5- Ann (When her last name is Teek. 5th graders had a field day with that. Not only is it a bad name, but geez Ann fucking Teek has to wait a century to live up to her name. )

#6- Sari (Pronounced “Sorry.” Can you imagine that conversation in school? The teacher asks, “What is your name?” Girl answers, “Sorry.” Teacher responds, “you didn’t do anything wrong. What is your name?” Girl answers again, “Sorry.” I could go on for hours, but I will spare you.)

#7- Casablanca (From a family who is not Moroccan, nor have they ever been to Morocco. She did eventually shorten it to Casa, which is a little better, but still on my list.)

#8- Sickurous (Sorry if you are reading this, but honestly your name is Sickurous)

#9- Spif (I think his parents were high when they did this, and just couldn’t spell)

#10- Lucky (He was born with one arm. How lucky can he be?)

What sucks about the whole naming thing is, the kid has no say in the matter. The parents just name them something they read on a bathroom wall, and the kid has to deal with it. The only option the kid has in the naming process is to change it when they are old enough. Why would you do that to your kid? I hear parents say “Oh, they can change it when they get older.” Even if they did get to change their name to something they wanted, they still have to start from scratch. It’s extremely difficult for someone who has gone by the same name for 18 years to have to start over. I mean, really? Who wants to have that conversation?

Friend: “Hey Osanka!”

Name Changer: “Umm. My name is not Osanka anymore, its John.”

Friend: “Ha, ha, ha. You are hilarious. Come on Osanka let’s go play halo!”

Name Changer: “My name is John now. I changed it yesterday.”

Friend: “Ha, Ha, and I’m Brad Pitt let’s go!”

Not only is it hard for the person changing their name, it’s even harder for everyone else to get used to calling them a different name. Imagine calling something a different name from the one you have been calling it your whole life. Let’s say McDonalds changed their name. They just come out, and say at a press conference “hey, don’t call us McDonalds anymore. Call us The Burger Temple.” Most likely you would laugh, give them the finger, and never eat there again (I didn’t need the name change for that.) Or maybe, you just might never call them the Burger Temple, because nothing other than the name has changed. They still have the big yellow arches, the creepy clown out front that entices kids to sit on his lap, and food that makes you so fat even the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance say’s, “damn, you are fat.” The name change affects everyone.

Here are some things to think about when naming your kid:

Can kids make fun of it?

Does it sound forced? Like a name you have to swallow out of embarrassment before you say it. “Um, my name is (swallow) Moonswan”

How do people react to it? Do people look blankly at you when you say it? Do they have to say, “is that short for something” or have to ask again “What is it?”

Is it hard to spell? No one says to me, “How do you spell Matt?” However, if they did, I would say, “with a silent x.”

Make sure to spell is right. Don’t spell Jessica, Jezzikkah or Destiny, Dezteeney

What is your last name? If your last name is Lincoln don’t name your kid Abe.

Is it the name of something else like a car (Lexus) or a plant (Sage) or a pizza (Margarita)

To ensure kids don’t get horrible names, I am proposing  that we create a government ran Department of Names (or DON). All children’s names have to be submitted and approved by DON. If there was a department of names, my friend Ann Teek would have been Susy Teek and she would have lived a heckle free life. You would not believe the jokes my friend Tom Cruise has had to go through all his life. People calling him crazy, a closeted homosexual. I could not imagine what people who aren’t famous that have his same name has to go through. The naming department is here to protect your kids from your horrible decisions. However, if you really want a bad name, we will force you to name all your kids equally as bad names. This is our daughter Amelie and her sister The girl with the dragon tattoo.

The moral of this whole rant is; as exciting as it is to name a child, don’t name it something they are going to resent you for the rest of their life. If you are going to name a kid something like Tigger, do us all a favor and don’t reproduce. Get a dog!